BILLY Connolly exploring the subject of death and his personal experiences of Parkinsons and prostate cancer is surprisingly the funniest show on television this week, says David Stephenson

Billy Connolly explores death and the funeral industry that capitalises on tragedy [JAIMIE GRAMSTON/PH]

Death is not an easy subject to do on television, let alone in life. But no one told comedian Billy Connolly, who produced the most poignant and funny television of the week, seemingly without even trying. Billy Connolly’s Big Send Off (ITV, Wednesday) was a show, he said, he had the idea about “many years ago”, before it was then overtaken by events.

He had, he said, “a funny week”, which only he could describe in such a way. On the Monday, he got a hearing aid, on the Tuesday, he got heartburn pills, before on the Wednesday he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and Parkinson’s.

Most people, especially celebrities, would run and hide at the news but not this garrulous Scottish comedian who has been making pathos the subject of his wit for decades. Indeed, he has been living in the US for 30 years, although this hasn’t, in any sense, taken away his edge. Quite the opposite. His response to his “funny week” was typical: “I wasn’t unduly worried.”

Most revealingly he said he’d found out about Parkinson’s from an Australian doctor: “A man from Tasmania came up to me in a hotel and said he was worried about my gait!” He wasn’t alas referring to the five-bar variety.

America of course does these things differently. It’s rather all out there. Death has become a £21bn industry, in a country where you can now buy “Bereave-mints” or perhaps a “funeral blanket” with your loved one sewn into the fabric so you can languish under them as you watch the telly.

His tour of mausoleums and cemeteries was just as fascinating, learning the rituals of different ethnic and religious groups as he went. The Chinese, who are apparently spending more and more of their cash on death, burn fake money, even though many could well afford to incinerate the real thing. He also immersed himself in voodoo in New Orleans: “I wanted there to be more chicken blood!”

However, it was Eric Idle, who once lived around the corner from Connolly in LA, who provided the star turn. The Monty Python quipped: “Someone once said to me that all my songs have been about death or penises.”

His splendid song, Always Look On The Bright Side of Life, is regularly in the top 10 funeral songs, if you live long enough to be bothered looking it up. At Idle’s own farewell, he said “Bright Side” will be “definitely be played. I also want fireworks, so it will need to be an evening do!”

As for Billy Connolly, he seemed to be taken with the speedy Muslim preparation of the corpse, not least the transportation, “I like your van”, but “spiritually, I don’t know where I am”. Billy Connolly, a true comedy legend.

It was a mixed week for factual television. Most hilariously, the inimitable Bear Grylls made a return, travelling in a dinghy to a desert island. No change there, only he didn’t stay. And no, he didn’t immediately go to a five-star hotel either. Well, not straight away. He jumped out of the inflatable and helped a dozen willing chumps into a swamp so they could attempt to survive in a wilderness without help from a camera crew.

This time, they’re filming it themselves. It’s starting to sound serious. It’s called, The Island, with Bear Grylls (C4, Monday), only don’t expect the intrepid-ish survivalist to be parachuted into the mangrove. He’s only doing the voice-over. Has he lost his bottle, you shout? But if there is need for a man to be parachuted in, he will undoubtedly do it, with a modicum of fuss, risk and publicity.

As it was, the first episode involved watching three men, and there were only men on the island, trying to light a fire with a couple of sticks. It took three hours, and we were treated to the edited highlights. Apparently if you rub them together for long enough, you will create friction, even embers. Flames will ensue, if you stick to your task. It was like watching an episode of Neanderthals: The Early Years. Rarely, for a TV programme, have I turned to ash myself over the course of an hour.

After they lit the fire, they boiled some water which they had found in a medium-sized puddle in the muddle of the island. We’re promised a “month” of this programme, by which time they may have caught a fish, or someone may fall ill. Or are they all actors playing chumps who actually know everything about surviving in a jungle? This show really needs Ant & Dec.

Finally, funny fellow James Corden was the latest “interviewer” to undertake the “When (please insert celebrity name here) met (please insert different celebrity name here)” genre. Was Jeremy Paxman not available? This time it was When Corden Met Barlow (BBC1, Monday), your Bank Holiday treat from dear Auntie. It was surprisingly revealing. By way of background, Barlow’s boy band, Take That, split up after three years.

This then propelled Barlow into the wilderness which, apparently for most of the media, was a cue to pile into Barlow on a regular basis, dubbing him a failure. The Little Britain pair of David Walliams and Matt Lucas should hang their heads in shame for presenting a Brit award, mercilessly sending up the singer. If the brains of these two were welded together, I doubt they still couldn’t begin to write a song, let alone perform it. Bear Grylls should dispatch both them to that desert island as a penance.

STEPHENSON'S ROCKET

It’s revealing when the person talking the most common sense on a programme is comedian Russell Brand. Love for Sale, with Rupert Everett (C4, Monday) is a such a series. The content is so 18 certificate, Mary Whitehouse must be spinning.

I can’t even begin to describe what goes on in the programme because this is a family newspaper. It’s also a rip-off of a BBC3 show, which did the subject several months ago, and less graphically.